


last christmas (i'll give it to someone special)

by wellhellofuture



Category: Chef RPF
Genre: Bon Appetit RPF, F/M, New York at Christmas, The BA Annual Holiday Party, braffitz4ever, last christmas, misunderstanding and awkwardness, the magic of christmas always wins OKAY, the wham version or the taylor swift one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22003354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellhellofuture/pseuds/wellhellofuture
Summary: Brad and Claire have A History at the BA Annual Holiday Party.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	last christmas (i'll give it to someone special)

**Author's Note:**

> A liiiiittle late for normal holiday festivities, but this idea lodged itself in my head and I won't be able to write anything else till I get it out. So enjoy, and keep me honest - I hope to get all five parts posted today!
> 
> Reminder that this is fiction, the figment of my own imagination, and let's please keep it that way.
> 
> merry christmas and happy holidays, especially to the discord for being the best gift i could've ever asked for this holiday season. you all are the best humans.

At first, Claire isn’t sure what to make of the embossed scarlet envelope that appears in her personal mailbox at work one crisp morning in early November, just several weeks after she officially joins the Bon Appétit payroll. The subtle, classy calligraphy proclaims her “Cordially invited to the 32nd Annual Condé Nast Holiday Party”, but she’s not all too sure what that means.

Is she supposed to bring a white elephant gift? Provide food? Wear black tie?

Is is even appropriate to attend as such a new employee?

A quick consultation with Carla tells her no, no, and at her own discretion; evidently the party is the Event of the Year and _you simply have to go, Claire, it’s so much fun!_

And so she finds herself, not quite a month later, tentatively approaching the double glass doors of the Aureole on 42nd. The front wall of the establishment is glass, and she can see clusters of bodies milling together in the golden light of artfully placed sconces. The simple black A-line dress she’d felt was understated and elegant just half an hour before now seems childish and simple, and she experiences minor panic at the off chance that Anna Wintour might see her in something so cliché.

Someone else beats her to the door, opening it just wide enough to dart into the party and immediately be engulfed by the crowd, but an intimidating volume of noise still spills out of the crack and into the street. She’s on the verge of turning tail and slinking home - introvert that she is, she’s not meant for this, all the schmoozing and polite chatter and answering the same questions over and over again - when she catches the eye of someone familiar.

Carla beams at her from behind the warmly-lit picture window, full glass of wine in each hand as if to say, “Come in! I’m waiting!” A deer in headlights, Claire has no choice but to go in, and takes a fortifying breath before taking the plunge.

To her surprise, it’s not so bad at first. Carla is kind and attentive, making a point to introduce Claire to every single acquaintance of hers that crosses their paths. Claire loses track of names quickly, no matter how easily she used to memorize dates and literary devices in school, but is grateful for Carla’s efforts nonetheless. There’s a constant steady stream of fellow CN employees through the doors, and Claire is finally starting to relax and loosen up with the warmth and the wine when Carla checks her phone with a frown.

“Oh, shit - Claire, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta bounce. My sitter just texted, said my kid’s throwing up. Probably just a stomach bug or something, but he’ll want me - I have to head home. You’ll be okay?”

It’s phrased like a question, but Carla is already setting her drink down on the nearest table and fishing her coat check ticket out of her pocket.

“Go on, go, help your son, I’m more than fine,” Claire says, shooing her away. Claire’s met Cosmo once; he’s incredibly sweet and absolutely deserving of his mother’s full attention when sick, and plus Claire’s a full grown adult and is completely capable of handling herself at a stupid work party, for goodness sake.

“So glad you came!” Carla calls back over her shoulder, already snaking through the crowd towards the exit. Claire barely has time to wave back before Carla’s dark curls disappear into the horde.

Without Carla’s bubbling, motherly presence, Claire’s mood takes a steep downward slide. She barely knows all the crew members in the Test Kitchen, much less their neighbors on other floors of the One World Trade Center, and the sheer amount of unfamiliar faces has her stomach twisting in knots like the time she accidentally walked into a crowded frat house instead of her study group’s meeting place. She has the same crawly feeling under her skin, like she doesn’t belong and everyone else knows it, and she’s automatically scrambling to ditch her wine and beeline for the door when she feels an arm brush over her shoulders.

She whirls around, immediately on the defensive, only to find Brad-the-kitchen-manager with his arms raised in the universally acknowledged “I’m innocent” gesture.

“Easy, easy, just me!” he says, and she appreciates how he instinctively steps back to give her extra space. “Y’alright, Claire?”

Brad, like the rest of the kitchen staffers, has been welcoming and supportive from her very first day on the job. He’s capable and efficient, yet always seems to have a minute to spare to show her where an elusive tool or necessary spice might be hiding. He’s funny, too, already developing a sense of her bad mood days and effortlessly chasing away the dark clouds with silly jokes and long-winded anecdotes. Claire respects the way he runs his kitchen, so much neater and calmer than the other professional kitchens in which she’s had the displeasure of working. More than anything, she admires how he treats his peers: he takes precious time out of his day to ask about Molly’s parents, who have moved to Florida; Chris’s kids, who Brad wants to train as successors to the “Test Kitchen Manager Throne”; Andy’s friend Mark, who Brad met once at a bar crawl; and the various assortment of people who make their lives worth living, people he’s only barely met but whom he already genuinely cares for.

It also doesn’t hurt that he’s got killer biceps and soft, downy hair she wants to run her fingers through.

The object of her embarrassing desires is currently peering down at her with concerned interest, though, so she pulls herself together - stops staring at the way his arms pull attractively at the seams of his button down - and smiles wanly up at him.

“Hi, Brad, sorry, I was…a little out of it.”

Never one to pull punches, Brad not-so-subtly ushers them towards the door. “Ya don’t look too great, Saffitz, first holiday party a lil much for ya?”

She’s not sure if she’s more embarrassed that her discomfort was evident or that Brad already knows her well enough to understand exactly what’s bothering her.

“It’s a lot,” she agrees, ditching her wine glass on a nearby counter as they make their way down the hall. “Brad - what - you don’t have to leave too.” He just chuckles, throws his hip against the door handle, and gallantly waves her through to the bustle of 42nd.

“Nah, I been around for plenty of these things, gonna be around for plenty more. ‘Sides, there’s nothing better than New York at Christmastime.”

“It’s my first Christmas here,” she finds herself saying as Brad helps her into her coat. She only moved to the city after her externship and hasn’t yet been there for a full cycle of seasons.

“Well, then, good thing I rescued ya!” Brad exclaims. “C’mon, ya trust me?”

To her surprise (or is it?) she does, intimately. She lets him grab her hand, warm even though her insulated mittens, and tug her down the block. He startles her with a sudden left turn onto Sixth Avenue, darting in front of an errant cab, and Brad lets out a warm laugh in response to her surprised squeal. The air is brisk but not frigid, and their breaths mingle together in cloudy puffs as they scramble down the sidewalk. Brad’s legs are nearly twice the length of Claire’s, but he paces himself and keeps checking over his shoulder with a broad smile to make sure she’s not struggling to keep up. Claire hopes he attributes the flush in her cheeks to nothing more than their exertion in the cold air.

Directions have never been Claire’s strong suit, so she doesn’t realize where they’re headed until they emerge onto 49th Street just a few short minutes later to see the magical lights of Rockefeller Center glittering before them.

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes wide, and clutches Brad’s forearm with both hands without a second thought. She’s only ever seen this place in movies, even though she visited the city twice before making the move, and the sheer magnitude of the huge evergreen standing guard over the ice rink takes her breath away. Brad lets her take it all in, rocking on his heels with a self-satisfied grin as she looks around in wonder.

“Thank you,” she whispers, unable to keep a matching grin off her face, hoping he can’t see how touched she is that he’s done this for her.

“Anytime,” he says easily, like it’s nothing, like he’d do this for anyone he noticed having a hard time. And she knows it’s true - he’d have done it for every one of her colleagues, and probably even a random stranger, and the realization hits her like ice water in this perfect little bubble Brad’s created for her.

Luckily, Brad’s distracted by a flash of red in the corner, and it’s his turn to gasp.

“Claire! Look, they’re havin’ skatin’ with Santa! Wanna go?”

Of course she does - how could she not? - so she tells herself to enjoy the moment without making it a big deal.

“Always wanted to meet the real Santa Claus,” she says with mock seriousness, and it earns her a grin and a sparkle in Brad’s eye. "Plus there's no way a guy as big as you can ice skate without falling over."

“C’mon,” he says again, pulling her along as he heads for the skate rental, and she wishes she could just ask Santa to make this inappropriate crush disappear.

**Author's Note:**

> Major note: I have no idea what the exact timing of Claire's move to NY/joining BA/etc actually is, so I made up things that worked with the plot. Sue me!
> 
> Title is, obviously, a riff on the song, which has always been a favorite of mine. Stick around for future chapters coming soon! lots of angst, my b


End file.
